


Soon I'll be Gone

by OhBluntOne



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Angst, Bran Stark Dies, Catelyn Tully Stark Dies, Emotional Baggage, Eventual Family Bonding, Family Drama, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Inspired by Little Women, R Plus L Equals J, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:26:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22700944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhBluntOne/pseuds/OhBluntOne
Summary: Sansa's been estranged from her family for the better part of two years. She lives a picture-perfect life in Dorne, where her days are filled with painting, suitors and endless sun. She is finally convinced of her own contentment and happiness.Until Jon shows up out of the blue, intent on making amends for careless words spoken years ago. He storms into her life and wrecks the mirage of her happiness she's been working so hard to maintain.Loosely inspired by the Amy/Laurie conversations in Little Women (2019).
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Myrcella Baratheon/Robb Stark
Comments: 64
Kudos: 225





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon meets Sansa in Dorne. Their interactions are interesting, to say the least.

June 5th, Sunspear, Dorne.

Sansa chews on her lips gently as she studies the painting she’s been slowly adding to all afternoon. There’s something missing, she knows, but she can’t seem to place it. She hums quietly to herself, reaching for the palette and mixing a soft orange and pink together for the blossom.

As she’s patted her brush against the canvas, a spec of paint flies and splatters her thumb and forefinger. With a sigh she resigns the painting to be eternally flawed.

She’s polishing the pink spec off of her thumb when two full, warm hands grasp her waist from behind and she spins with a horrified gasp.

Her horror turns quickly to unadulterated joy as she takes in the steely grey eyes, dark curls and lashes of the man before her. “Jon!” she cried, throwing herself into his comforting arms. “What are you doing here?” she says as her lips press against his suit jacket, that she cannot help but notice is quite lovely.

“I’m here on business.” He answers, his eyes take in every inch of her soft, angelic face.

“Business?” she cocks her head as if it’s the most peculiar thing he could’ve said. Her mouth quirks into a small smile and her eyebrows raise teasingly, “Business for Targaeryen industries?”

The warmth from his face slides off, which Sansa notices, as he pulls away, “So you’ve heard?”

She lets her hand fall to hold his lapel gently, to keep him close enough, close enough that he can’t run away. She shakes her head and softly admits, “Everyone from Winterfell to Pentos has heard, I suspect.”

“Of course.” His answer is stiff and Sansa feels her heart shift slightly in her ribcage.

She sighs, and releases his lapel, “I hope you don’t think me some twittering gossip, father mentioned it last time he came to visit, he figured I deserved to know.”

Jon nods, “Of course you deserve to know, it’s not you I’m frustrated with.”

“Just my social circles then,” she teases, but the intention and meaning is hiding in her slightly narrowed eyes.

He studies her for a moment, contemplating his next words, then answers brusquely, “Yes, your social circles. I’ve heard of your engagement to Harold Hardyng.”

She nods, “Who told you?” she doesn’t let him answer. “Is that why you’re here, Jon?”

He frowns, watching her with a small shake of his head. “Why would I be here because you are engaged?”

Sansa flushes and explains, “To act as some emissary for father? Or is it for Robb? Theon perhaps. No matter where I go, I cannot seem to escape overbearing masculinity.”

His eyes darken at her quiet strikes and parries with him, “Yes, as far as I’ve heard Harold Hardying is as overbearingly masculine as they come.”

“You dislike him?”

“I dislike everyone here.” He offers with a shrug, his hands finding place in the pockets of his tailored trousers.

Sansa looks away from his handsome face, and instead focuses on the blossom tree she’d just been painting as she says with steel, “Of course you do. I suppose my friends Margaery, Myrcella, Willas and Dickon also fall prey to the same critical judgement.”

“Not Myrcella.” Jon says, and she can still feel his eyes boring into her profile. She hopes the falling tendrils of her hair cover the small bluish mark that’s fading just beneath her jawline. “She’s lovely, I can’t think of anyone better suited to Robb.”

“Hmm. How lucky she is to have passed the harsh, infallible judgement of Jon Targaeryen.” Sansa releases sarcastically, turning her head back to study his form and face.

He bites back, voice laced with ice that can only be from the North “I have been with you less than five minutes and already you are offended by me.”

“It is not you who I am offended by, it is the cold harsh words you cannot help but speak to me.” She sighs, disappointment flooding her chest. She had expected their conversation to go south as soon as she’d touched him, but she thought he might attempt civility in the meantime.

“You goaded me. You asked me what my opinion was on your social circles and I responded with truth.”

She takes a step closer and her hand ghosts over his jacket, not making contact as she snarls “I did not goad you, I was teasing you. I was being affectionate, but what would you know of affection considering you cannot seem to give it to anyone.”

Jon rolls his eyes, “You know that’s not true.”

She nods, chuckles and walks backwards towards her easel and away from him. “Do you come here to shame me, Jon? Do you come here to obstruct the only happiness I have ever found?”

She starts washing her brushes in the pot, as Jon stays where he is and watches her. “This is not happiness.”

Sansa laughs at his ridiculous comment, “It sure as Weirwood isn’t unhappiness. Dorne is divine, Harry is kind and everything about my life now feels otherworldly. I am not mocked by my family or jeered at and tormented by the North for my past.”

“They want you home.” She doesn’t look at him, but she knows he’s adding her up like some complex sum he cannot complete.

“I do not care what they want, I used to live my life for them, and now I live my life for me.” She pauses and then, in an aloof tone says, “Whatever you are here for, do not interfere with my affairs.” She finalises.

Jon doesn’t reply to her, “Are you dismissing me?”

“Yes.”

She hears the rustle of the grass at his feet as he retreats, and she has to fight to urge to watch him walk away.

Jon turns, “I’ll be seeing you at the ball I hope, oh wonderful artiste!”

She ignores him and pretends not to hear him, instead refocusing her attention on her brushes. Dunk, twist and dry.

June 7th Sunspeare, Dorne

Sansa smiles wanly as Harry leads her around the room. Her skirts of blushed pink rustle around their ankles. He apologises as he steps on her toe, but practiced perfection means her smile and etiquette remains.

It is not Harry Hardyng that she loves, but he is part of the lifestyle she so desires, so he’s a permanent fixture.

The song ends and she curtsies delicately to him, even though his gaze has already fallen to his friends on the other side of the room. He grunts at her and excuses himself, no doubt to discuss some disgustingly watered-down version of their kingdom’s political game.

“No need to look so down, I’m sure he’ll find you interesting again in 20 minutes or so.” a voice dryly says and Sansa swishes round to face Jon. She shoots him a severe look and walks away from him to the edge of the ballroom.

“Don’t talk to me here.” She snaps, glancing nervously behind her at his stalking figure.

His voice gets louder, goading her, mocking her, “Embarrassed by me? Scared to be associated with a barbaric northern bastard?”

“You’re drunk,” she hisses, staring up at his wide eyes and the lopsided tie around his throat.

He looks at her pensively and without denying it says, “I feel caught.”

“Leave me alone, Jon. Before you embarrass both of us.” She starts to walk away again, but he tracks her and sidles up beside her.

Jon continues to taunt her, his words have an edge only brought through by the alcohol. He is harder, less forgiving, “Embarrass you? In front of Harold Hardyng and his 40,000 a year? Are you worried that he’ll renege on his offer of marriage when he sees you claimed by the North?” he grasps her hand tightly and pulls it to his chest emulating the way she’d touched his lapel two days prior.

“I am claimed by no one, especially not you or your foul words.” She tugs her arm away aggressively, her words becoming increasingly clipped. “You disgust me.”

“I do? Please elaborate.”

She turns and levels him with a gaze. Her eyes seem to sober him for a moment as they bore into his soul. “Jon, you have everything you ever dreamed of having. You have a family, a fortune, a name. With every chance of living the life you always wanted to live, you waste it on this.” She flings her arms as his stumbling figure. She gives him a lidded look, “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”

“And what of you, Saint Sansa?” he takes a step towards her, looking more wolf than she could remember.

“What do you mean, what of me?”

He snorts, “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, dreaming of spending Harry Harding’s money, unhappy and rich and in the south forever. You are the one who is disgusting.” He emphatically continues when she stays silent, watching in tension as he stumbles back and disrupts the dancefloor, his eyes never leaving hers. “Saint Sansa, ladies and gentlemen!” he cries and she resents the heat that trails up her neck and the tears that blur her vision.

June 8th Sunspear, Dorne

“Jon Targaeryen here to see you, my lady.” Her maid announces from the doorway of her gallery.

And before Sansa has time to protest, Jon strides through the doorway with assertiveness and clarity. He bows to her and immediately starts speaking, “I must apologise, Sansa, for the way I behaved last night.”

“I’m surprised you remember any of it.” She counters, whilst pulling at the strings of her art covering.

“I was drunk, not impotent.” He says, taking a seat on her dornish loveseat.

She softly snipes, “Could’ve fooled me.”

“Sansa, would you let me apologise please?” he begs, leaning back against the embroidery, looking like a vision. Sansa would like to paint him, she thinks, though it’d be impractical with him annoying her to fury at every possible opportunity.

“I don’t understand what there is to apologise for, I don’t doubt that you meant every single thing you said.” He narrows his eyes at her words and meets her gaze. She purses her lips, “Didn’t you?”

“Yes, but…”

“No, I don’t want to hear it, please leave me and my life alone. I do not wish for you to torment me any longer, tell my family I am well when you return to the North.” She punctuates her speech. By ripping her apron off and moving towards the door.

Jon stands and grabs her. “Stop, don’t go…”

“What are you doing here?!” she exclaims, raising her voice for the first time in weeks. “Tell me the truth!”

“I wanted to show you that this world, this life isn’t real, I’m here to take you away from this mirage you’ve created.”

“And go where, the North?” she presses, eyebrows raised. “Winterfell?” He nods, and she shakes her head. “No. That’s not my home, Jon. That hasn’t been my home since mother died.”

He stands and meets her face on, “They regret it, they do…how they treated you.”

She looks up at him through a watery gaze, “No they don’t… _you_ regret how they treated me, there’s a difference.”

Jon sighs and runs a hand over his meticulous facial hair. “Fine. Not home then, let’s travel like you always wanted, never settling, never stopping. Just you and me.”

“Oh Jon, the sun set on us years ago.” She says softly, reaching and cupping his face in her hands.

He shakes his head slightly, his eyes closed. “No.” he murmers.

“Yes, we aren’t meant to be.”

“We are, I know it. I feel it. I made a mistake, I was eighteen! I didn’t understand what I felt for you.” He stops and his breaths become tighter as he looks down at her.

Sansa tightens her lips, “It was never about how you felt Jon, it was the depth of which you felt it. You were a bastard, a nobody, you had nothing and I was willing to give everything I had up, for you. All I wanted was you. I didn’t need Winterfell, or my family or money, I just wanted you.” Her hands slip from Jon’s cheeks and fiddle with her skirts as he watches her cautiously. “But I wasn’t enough, you didn’t love me enough to give up the family.”

“Sansa, I was stupid, I didn’t know. But when you left, everything was cold, it took me a year to realise that it wasn’t your family I wanted, it was you. You are everything to me now, don’t condemn me to my naivety back then.” He swears with such sincerity, Sansa knows its true – Jon was always a terrible liar.

“But you’re too late.” She whispers and steps back.

“Why?!” Jon raises his voice, “Why…because of Harold Fucking Hardyng? I know you don’t love him Sansa.”

She scoffs, shooting him a look. “Of course I don’t, but you know what…for the first time in my life I am worth something to someone. I may not love him, but he loves me and respects me and is there for me.”

“A direwolf can do those things!” he roars, knocking over a palette of paints, but Sansa doesn’t flinch. “You need passion, Sansa.” He says and stalks up to her, grasping her hands between his and holding them to his chest. “I know you feel this.”

“I feel it, I do.” She coldly responds, pulling herself out of his grasp. “But I don’t want it. I want Harold Hardyng and the life he can give me.”

“It’s a mirage.” He spits. “You’re living in a fucking fantasy, and soon you’ll see, that underneath Harry Hardyng and his 40,000 a year lies nothing, nothing but empty words.”

“If you want to live a lifestyle, you can’t live a life. That’s what Cersei once told me, and in a way she’s right. I want the lifestyle, I want safety and trust, Harry can’t hurt me, he doesn’t have enough of me to hurt me. So one day, when he’s ruling the Vale and our children are running around the Eyrie, beautiful and blue-eyed. I’ll know that my life may not have had passion, but it did not have pain and suffering. This is what I want.”

Sansa watches as Jon’s lips twist in realisation of what she’s saying. “Sansa, we can have that and more, don’t you see…” he trails off.

“We can’t have that…look at yourself Jon. How am I supposed to respect someone who hates themselves, who spends their days wasting their dead father’s fortune and gallivanting around Westeros in a drunken haze. You may have realised you loved me, but you’re not worthy of me.”

“Oh wise one, what would you have me do?” he mocks.

She lets the silence stretch out between them, aware of what her next sentence will do to him. “Go to Dragonstone and Daenerys…”

“No.”

“…And make something of yourself.”

“No. I don’t want to.” He shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have to jump hoops to have you love me.”

“I have loved you my entire life, and I suspect I will love you until the day I die – my love is not dependent upon conditions. I am merely telling you the reasons I will not leave with you, take it or leave it, it doesn’t matter to me.” She stalks towards the door.

He calls at her, slumping on the loveseat once again, “So that’s it, you’ll marry Harry Hardyng then?”

“Yes. Don’t call again here, Jon.”

She leaves him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa receives upsetting news and travels home. What waits for her surprises them all.

3rd December, Sunspear, Dorne 

Sansa sobs into her embroidered handkerchief, tears streaming down her face. She looks up at the gardens which surround her and she hardly feels a thing for them. 

The flowers she used to paint now seem dulled by the pain that rips through her. When she stands, sniffling, the gods forsaken letter falls in a crumpled heap to the floor. 

Bran is dead. She hadn’t even known he was sick, Father hadn’t mentioned it last May, but according to the letter he’d been suffering for the better part of two years. 

She wants to shed her skin, rip it slowly, sinew by sinew off of her bones and rid herself of this pain. She’s exhausted. 

Margaery finds her sat on a bench, pulling at the skin around her fingernails, “Darling, what on earth happened?” 

Sansa’s watery gaze meets her and her lower lip wobbles as she whispers, “Bran died.” 

Margaery steps back, her eyes widening, she looks scared of the news, “Bran what?” 

“He died, he’s dead, here, look.” She picks the letter off of the floor and thrusts it at her. She leans her head back against the garden’s wall as Margaery scans the letter, emotion filling in her eyes. 

When she’s done, she gives Sansa a look of such profound understanding that she wants to climb into Margaery’s embrace. She whispers, “I never could have…I didn’t think that this happened to people.” 

“I’m so sorry.” Margaery says, placing a delicate hand on her shoulder. “Whatever you need to do, let me help.” 

Sansa nods and stays silent for a moment before looking at her best friend, “I have to go home.” 

“I know you do.” She nods, then leans back next to Sansa against the wall. “He was so young.” 

Margaery knew all about Sansa’s family, she was arguably the only person outside of her childhood who understood everything with the exception of Myrcella.

“I can’t be here anymore. I just…this life, these things, he’ll never see them, he’ll never come to visit.” She says as another sob wracks her slim frame. Margaery pulls her to her chest and rocks her lightly. 

“It’ll be okay.” She whispers and Sansa nods through her pain. 

5th December, Sunspear, Dorne. 

Sansa’s doused in black, stood waiting for the carriage to collect her. The gardens she so revered are pale and grey now. 

She subdues the urge to break the stems of everything beautiful and charming and watch the sap leech over her fingers. 

But that would require effort, and Sansa doesn’t seem to have any energy anymore, every vivacious part of her gone in an instant. Bran, little Bran. He was just 15 the last time she saw him, messy hair, a cheeky grin and a tight hug. 

Her eyes stoically remained on the skyline, not shedding a tear, she didn’t want Harry to see her cry. 

Footsteps walked up beside her. “Sansa.” 

She turns in shock to Jon, dressed to the nines in funeral colours. He looks different than how he had in summer, he looks clean and put together.

He takes a step, holding her surprised gaze, “I couldn’t let you travel alone, no matter how much you hate me.” 

She lifts her chin in acknowledgement and nods. She doesn’t hate him, but she doesn’t have it in her to fight, not now, not with her sudden realisation of mortality shaming their petty arguments. 

“I’m so sorry about Bran, I should’ve been there.” His head bowes and momentarily she spitefully wonders if he was sleeping and drinking his way around Essos when he heard. 

She reigns in the thought, there’s no time for resentment, “You wouldn’t have been able to do anything. It is I, who should’ve been there.” 

Jon emphatically shakes his head, “You can’t think like that.” 

Sansa doesn’t reply, just watches Harry’s approaching form, dressed in a light blue suit. He smiles and waves and she feels Jon flinch when she gives him a warm smile in return. 

“Nice to meet you, you must be Theon Greyjoy.” Harry turns to Jon, hand extended. 

Jon looks at it suspiciously and frowningly replies, “I’m Jon Targaeryen. Greyjoy’s coming?” The latter part of the sentence was directed at Sansa. 

“No, not anymore.” She shakes her head with a sigh, “His journey was delayed here, and he told me to go on without him.” 

“Jon Targaeryen?” Harry eyes him with increased suspicion, “You were here a few months ago. Left in quite a hurry didn’t you?” 

Jon nods, stoic as ever, “I did, urgent business to attend to in Essos.” 

Harry’s lips quirk slightly and almost mockingly replies, “Of course…business.” Sansa’s lips tighten as he turns his attention to her. “My love, will you be okay to travel with him?” 

Sansa nods, “Yes, I’ve known Jon my whole life.” 

Jon’s jaw snaps as he catches on to Harry’s implication, but he doesn’t say a word. “Right. Look after my fiancé then, Jon. If I find out that anything’s happened to her…” 

Jon interrupts, “Rest assured, Sansa is in safe hands.” 

Harry hums and moves his neck in a way that reminds Sansa of a flowery peacock. She doesn’t smile, but she wish that she could, it’s the first time she’s wanted to in a while. 

“When will you return?” Harry demands, his face decidedly less kind now, far more demanding. 

“I do not know, my love. I have,” she pauses, “family affairs to attend to in addition to the funeral.” Jon looks at her profile and his eyes lock on her as she speaks. 

“Right, but an estimate?” Harry presses and Sansa nods. 

“I’d say a few moons.” 

Harry’s face turns a subtle shade of puce as he explodes, “A few moons?! What of the wedding?” 

“The wedding cannot happen without me, I understand your hesitation, but this is something I must do before we wed.” 

Harry sighs and looks at Jon and then back at her. “Yes. Yes of course. I mean…I could come with you?” 

“She’s fine with me.” Jon snaps and Harry grits his teeth and turns to the larger boy with a ridiculous expression on his face. 

“Now listen here, Snow…” he addresses and Jon practically growls. 

“Please, stop.” Sansa whispers and Jon flinches, immediately retracting into himself. Harry bares on, his eyes not leaving Jon’s face. “Harry, love, it is just a couple of moons, I’ll be okay. I have left your Christmas solstice present with Margie, there’s a letter attached.” Her hand presses into the crook of his arm and he softens just as Jon had. 

She smiles delicately, “I am so sorry I have to leave you.” 

“No, no of course.” Harry remembers himself, “You must go, I am sorry I have been so selfish.” He lowers his voice, making it harder for Jon to overhear. 

“You haven’t, I’ll miss you too.” She smiles and he tugs her close and plants a soft kiss on her lips. Sansa refuses to look at Jon when Harry pulls away. 

“I love you.” He says, taking a step back and then another one until he’s walking into the trees and back towards the house. 

There’s just a spread of silence between Jon and Sansa in Harry’s wake. She doesn’t look at him, but feels his gaze and frustration emanating off of him. She sighs, and turns towards the carriage that has just pulled up before them. 

Clambering in Jon says, “So that’s Harry.” 

Sansa sits across from him, tears shining lightly in her eyes. “Jon, I’m begging you, don’t do this. I am in so much pain, I don’t have the energy to fight with you.” 

Jon nods and looks out of the window as the carriage pulls away from Sunspear and begins the journey North to Winterfell. 

December 10th, Somewhere in the Westerlands

It’s been five days and they’ve spoken very little, Jon’s silence is a comfort for the most part. 

Occasionally, she sees him watching her and she feels widely unsure of herself, in a way which is wholly foreign to her. She feels like he can see every single part of her, like he can see inside her head, her heart and her soul. 

He’s doing that now, she can feel his gaze as she stares out of the window, rain pattering against the glass. 

“Sansa.” He breathes and she looks at him with her eyebrows raised in soft surprise. “Would you read something to me?” 

She smiles and looks down at the discarded book in her lap, poetry by some long dead romantic. Instead of replying, she picks it up and begins to read. 

“A gown made of the finest wool  
Which from our pretty Lambs we pull;  
Fair lined slippers for the cold,  
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and Ivy buds,  
With Coral clasps and Amber studs:  
And if these pleasures may thee move,  
Come live with me, and be my love.

The Shepherds’ Swains shall dance and sing  
For thy delight each May-morning:  
If these delights thy mind may move,  
Then live with me, and be my love.”

Jon hums in response, eyes closed, his head braced against the wall. Sansa flicks through the pages, and settles upon her favourite. 

They continue like this for hours, Jon with his eyes closed and Sansa soft lyrical voice filling the fissure between them. When her eyes begin to droop, he holds out one of his hands, “Let me.” 

She nods, passes him the book and nestles further into the corner of the carriage. Jon dips his head to hide his smile and his wish to stay eternally like this, with her. 

December 12th, Winterfell, the North. 

Her siblings are not there when she arrives, only her father is, he makes up some excuse for their whereabouts as he kisses either cheek and shakes Jon’s hand. 

“Thank you for bringing her.” He sternly nods at the boy who he once called son, now his nephew. 

He lowers his voice, eyes on Sansa as she walks away from them and into her childhood home. “In some ways, sir, I think she brought me.” 

Ned nods in understanding and follows his daughter through to the drawing room. Jon sighs and leans against the bannister to catch his breath for just a moment. The journey with Sansa had been so deeply comfortable and personal, that he’s not sure he can recover. 

They’d read to each other all the way, occasionally Jon would steer off book and tell her a story which she didn’t know, a story that he pretended wasn’t from his life, but truly was. In return, she’d do a shaky drawing of a memory, or of him. 

That little carriage had shielded them from the world, never once speaking of Bran, Harry or her family. It was pure contentment and Jon felt softened by it all. 

It didn’t remain that way. The front door opened to reveal Arya, standing outside in the cold. “You’re home!” she cried, throwing herself over the threshold and into his arms in the corridor. 

Jon didn’t know how to tell her that this wasn’t his home, not anymore. “When did you get here?” she breathed into his shoulder, pulling away to look at him, “Look at you all pompous and fancy.” 

“We arrived just ten minutes ago.” He offered, looking down at her affectionately. 

Arya’s face fell into a confused frown that Jon knew looked like the one he often sported, “We?” she questioned. Then her gaze shot over his shoulder to the open drawing room door, that allowed just a flash of auburn to be seen. “Sansa.” She whispered. 

“Arya, be nice.” He tried to grab her, but she slipped away from him in such a flurry he didn’t have the chance. 

He followed through into the drawing room, where Arya was just stood staring at her, not saying a word. Sansa was hardly breathing, her sister’s glare was so impossibly aggressive it made her want to cry again. 

Sansa’s gaze twisted form her sister, to Jon, to her father. She wanted to stand her ground, but being back here broke her heart a million ways to one, as did the look of impossible anger on Arya’s face. 

“What are you doing here?” she finally spits at Sansa. 

“Bran died.” Sansa responds after a pause, hoping that Arya would remember what they were. 

“I know Bran died! I fucking sat by his bed for weeks and watched him waste away, where to you get off…” She screamed, launching herself at Sansa, ripping at her hair and slapping her face, beating her with a fury. 

Arya’s aggression was so hellbent on hurting Sansa that each move hit exactly where it was supposed to. Sansa cries out repeatedly as her sister screams profanity and foul lines in her ears.

Jon and Ned watched on in horror as Arya goes feral at her sister, pulling her up and sobbing as she scratched at Sansa. Sansa tried, she really did, but it took Ned and Jon to haul Arya off of her. 

“Stop it!” Ned roared, Arya falling away from her sister, breathless and steaming with fury. Arya, instead of saying anything, ran out of the room leaving only the sound of slamming doors and Sansa’s sobs to remember her by.

Jon reached to touch Sansa’s shoulder, but she flinched and pulled away. “Don’t touch me.” And everything they’d been slowly building over the last week in the carriage fell apart. 

“Sansa, I’m sorry.” Ned apologises and Sansa gives him a look filled with such vitriol that he flinches. 

She snarls at him, “You’re a weak, godless man.” Then stands to leave. 

Neither Jon nor Ned make a move to follow. 

December 12th, Winterfell, The North. 

Dinner that evening starts off impossibly awkward, Robb and Rickon arrive and neither know how to act around her. Rickon gives her a small smile at one point, but Robb just avoids her gaze. 

Arya doesn’t show and it’s a relief. 

They’re halfway through the silent meal, a cacophony of scrapes and cutlery is the only sound, when things begin to go south and spiral. 

Thirteen-year-old Rickon is the one that breaks the seal on the conversation, “I don’t understand why no one’s talking about this!” He cries, throwing his knife down on his plate. 

Jon and Sansa look up at the same time in surprise, Robb grabs Rickon’s arm and attempts to hush him whilst Ned looks petrified at the end of the table. 

“No, stop it, Robb!” Rickon shouts. “We’ve got to stop pretending like Sansa is our sister, she isn’t!” He roars and Sansa narrows her eyes at him. 

“I am your sister.” 

Rickon snarls, “No you’re not, you’re not even family. You left when mum died and didn’t come back when Bran got sick! You’re no sister to me.” 

“I didn’t know Bran got sick, how was I supposed to come home, when I didn’t know?” Sansa pushes her plate away and glares at her youngest brother, but its Robb who speaks next. 

“What?” his face is ashen, and he looks devastatingly at her. 

“What, Robb?” Sansa snaps, looking between him and Ned who looks equally crestfallen. 

Robb looks at their father, ignoring Sansa, “Tell me it’s not true.” 

“I…” Ned shakes his head, placing it in his hands. “I’m sorry.” 

Robb stands and Sansa looks at Rickon who just looks horrified at the conversation. “Sansa didn’t know?! You told me she knew!” Robb roars at their Father who refuses to look up from his hunched position. 

“You thought she knew?” Jon asks incredulously, shaking his head. “Gods above.” His hand falls over his mouth and Sansa’s stomach plummets. 

She frantically shakes her head at her brother, words spilling from her in a desperate attempt for him to believe her, “I didn’t know, I swear, Father didn’t tell me a thing, I would’ve come home, you know I would’ve.” 

Robb’s mouth twists as he finally looks at her, as if he’s seeing her for the first time. She shakes her head slowly, still looking at him and he lets out a shaky breath, “I need to leave.” 

Sansa stands as he does and rushes round the table, but Robb’s out of the room before she can reach for him, before she can tell him to wait. 

The door slams and Jon, Rickon, Ned and Sansa are left in the silence of the resounding bang. Sansa turns heartbrokenly back to the table. 

Rickon bursts into tears.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chapter of revelations - Ned reveals the reasons behind his misgivings and Sansa seeks refuge in an unconventional place.

December 12th – Winterfell, the North.

“Ned, what just happened?” Jon seethed as Sansa stood, ashen-faced, staring at a sobbing Rickon.

At the sound of his voice, Sansa looked up, not at Ned but at Jon, and the tears that tipped over her lids and fell down her cheek only made him angrier.

“Tell me what just happened!” He roared at his surrogate father who collapsed from where he was standing back into his chair.

“Jon I…” Ned trailed off as his eyes met his daughter’s, guilt racing through his veins. He felt the overwhelming desire to join Catelyn in the grave as he saw the utter devastation in her features. “I thought it was the right thing to do.”

Jon opened his mouth to respond, but Sansa interrupted in a voice smaller than a mouse and whispered, “How would that have ever been the right thing to do?” choking slightly on the words.

Jon walks to her and grasps her wrist with a strength that juxtaposed her gentle frame so profoundly, she looked like she might snap. “I need answers.” Her gaze didn’t leave her Father, even as Jon stroked the back of her hand and rubbed a hand over his face.

Sansa pulled her hand away and Jon flinched at the loss of contact. She walked and took his seat at the dining table. “For the love of gods, please try and explain it to me.” She begged him. “Please say you had a reason.”

“I did. Of course, I did Sansa.” His eyes bored into her watery ones. “I should tell you, I never, none of us ever, thought he’d die. It seemed like there was always so much home.  
The Maesters were always informing us of something new, something that’d fix our little boy.”

He shivers with the memory of it, mentally berating himself for ever believing it. For letting Bran die in an airy hospital on medication rather than at home, or in the True North. Ned levels his voice and reaches for Sansa’s hand, “My sweet girl, you were so happy in the South, I couldn’t bear to tear you away from the world that acted as such a solace after your mother passed.”

“It wouldn’t have had to act as a solace had you treated her better.” Jon snapped and a sniffle from the other side of the table reminded all parties that little Rickon was still there.

“Jon.” Sansa silences him, she could feel his fury and anger pulsing through him, through her, as if they were one entity.

“My girl, if we had known that he was going to…” he trailed off.

Sansa shook her head and pulled her delicate fingers out from underneath his battled hand. “No, you wouldn’t have. You wouldn’t have brought me home, because I know you, Father, and I know you never thought that I belonged here.”

“That’s not true.” Ned shakes his head incessantly. Pity coursed through Sansa’s veins.

“Yes it is. You didn’t know what to do with me after she died. Don’t even try to deny it, the way you used to look at me was as if I scared you, as if I were some foreign entity in the house, something you didn’t understand.” Her voice gained steel as she spoke, Jon and Rickon watched on tensely, Rickon still highly confused desperately tried to grasp onto what she was saying.

“It was the Bolton’s boys fault he never should have even laid eyes on you.”

Something snapped in Jon, he slammed his fist down on the table, “You were the one that introduced them, you were the one who looked the other way, you ignored the signs. You let it all happen!”

“Son.” Ned snapped in warning.

“Don’t call me son!” He raged. Rickon started crying again and Sansa looked up at Jon with a wearied and wretched look. She appreciated his defence, she did, but she didn’t need it right now. “Don’t you ever call me son again!” he finished, finger shoved as threateningly as it could be. Ned flinched.

She sighed, “Jon, take Rickon and go, I need to talk to Father alone.”

Jon lifted a protesting Rickon from his seat and stormed out, leaving Sansa and Ned in silence once again.

“He’s right.” Ned nodded. “I should’ve noticed. You were here under my roof, how could I not have seen the bruises?” He shook his head at himself, letting it bow.

“Because I wasn’t your daughter,” she whispered and his head snapped up, an incredulous look on his face.

His eyes widen, and he meaningfully punctuates the words, “Sansa, of course you’re my daughter.”

“I’m not, I haven’t been since mother died.” She cried, hands twisting each other in her lap as tears fill her eyes. “She was the only one in this family who understood me, the only one. You were all Starks, and I was a Tully, this strange girl who liked to paint and sing and embroider.” She starts to cry, “I had so much love for all of you, but I was never one of you, not truly.”

She pauses, thinking he might deny it, but he doesn’t just wistfully and resignedly admits, “You looked so much like her.”

“I know.” She nodded in genuine understanding. “But I was a sixteen-year-old girl, who’d just lost her mother and you couldn’t bear to look at me. My siblings didn’t know what to say to me and you tried to marry me off to an abusive man.”

“I didn’t know about Ramsay, you know that!” He shouts at her, finally showing something other than self-pity.

“You should have known, like Jon said, you should have known…it was all right in front of you. It took Jon stepping in for you to realise, and even then it was because his knuckles were bleeding after the fight. I hurt every day for two months because of him and you didn’t notice once.” Her voice raised and words spilled from her in half thoughts and sentences, every sense of propriety lost in an instance.

It’s only then that Ned looks truly ashamed, “Sansa, I’ll never forgive myself. If I could take it all back, every second I would.”

She continued, anguish and pain marring her features as she released everything, “And telling me about Bran’s illness, was that because you couldn’t bear to look at me, because you didn’t want a reminder of mother sat at his bed when he died?”

Ned weakened further “No. I didn’t tell you about Bran because I wanted you to stay where you were. I wanted you to be happy in Dorne forever, not here, in the place that made you so miserable.”

She actually believed that he believed he was right, that he did the honourable and right thing by protecting her. But she deserved to know. Her brother died, without her, and she hadn’t known a thing.

“This place doesn’t make me miserable, the North is my home, Winterfell is my home!” She starts to cry, “It was you who didn’t think it was my home. You and them all decided there was nothing here for me after Ramsay, but I had everything here, I had Jon here. You took it all from me, sending me south. I thought it was what was best, that I was getting in the way of your perfect family, that’s why I went and that’s why I stayed away. I had to make do with what I was given. But then I got a letter, and it said Bran died without me, without him knowing that I loved him because of you!” she screamed, tears pouring now. “Because of you and your pathetic pity.”

She collapses back into the seat, opposite him at the table, and shakes her head, “I know how the world works, I’ve known ever since I was sixteen and Ramsay lay a hand on me. I could’ve been here for him, I would have been good for him, for all of you and I’ll never forgive you for taking that away.”

Ned nods and adds, “And for taking Jon away.”

Sansa releases a mirthless laugh. After everything, it’s all he heard, that Jon was her everything. She wants to be rid of her skin again as she ignores his comment and leaves the room. “No, father, not for taking Jon away, for taking my brother away. My baby brother.” Her voice chokes on her final words.

Ned doesn’t say anything, just nods, hand still clasped over his mouth. There’s a weighty silence that hangs between them as they stare at the panelling on the dining room table. His voice is lower and croakier than she’s ever heard it when he asks“So this is what you think of me, I’ll always be the villain?”

“How can you be anything else? You’re my father, you’ll always be my father, but I can’t imagine ever looking at you and not imagining the chance I missed to reconcile with Bran.”

Ned just nods and Sansa stands, brushing down her dress and swishes from the room. The door slams behind her and she’s in the corridor, face to face with Jon.

She makes a face, mouth contorting in anguish. “I should’ve come home anyway, I should’ve have just come to check.”

Jon nods, “Yes, but it doesn’t matter now, not because Bran’s dead, but because Bran knew you loved him regardless of whether you were by his side or not.”

Sansa nodded, it was just like Bran, Bran always knew everything, he would’ve known this.

Neither of them speak for a moment, and stay toe to toe then Jon states “I’m going to find Robb, he’ll be at Myrcella’s, will you come?” His hands wrap around her wrists reassuringly once again, this time she doesn’t pull away, but shakes her head.

“I don’t think I have it in me to see him, or anyone. I need to get out of this house, Jon, please.” She begs, but she doesn’t have to. Jon would do just about anything for her at this point…at any point really.

Jon nods, in wholehearted understanding. “I know a place, if you’ll let me. It was…important to me for a long time.” He tugs her to him and embraces her softly, her eyes latch on a family photo hanging from the stairwell, one that she’s not in and clenches her jaw.

December 14th, Wintertown, The North

Brienne pushed the soup over the table to Sansa. She’d been with Brienne and Podrick for two nights and they’d been savagely delightful. This was the North she missed, not family politics, not her sister’s punches or dramatic fights with Jon.

It was soup on a cold day, in a small, warm home. It was snow and crisp mornings and charcoal on paper. Not even the flowers she painted in Dorne compared to the glisten of the snow on Brienne and Podrick’s porch.

She wished Bran were here with her to see it. He always had preferred the idea of a humble living over the grandeur of the Stark fortune.

His funeral was tomorrow, she’d have to see her family. She begged every god she could think of that they wouldn’t be cruel to her as they so often could be, that they’d let her mourn in peace.

Jon had stopped by both mornings, with a peck on the cheek for a blushing Brienne and a mumbled word with Podrick which Sansa suspected was about her wellbeing. She softened, every time, their grievances from the summer almost forgotten as unspoken companionship and understanding threaded between them now.

“My lady, can I get you some Rye?” Brienne asked, standing awkwardly above her at the end of the table. Sansa shot Podrick a look and he grinned at his friend’s manners.

Sansa shook her head and offered what she hoped was a warmer smile than she was used to painting on, “No, Lady Brienne, please come sit.”

Brienne sat and reached for her own bowl. “Lady Sansa, I am no Lady, please just call me Brienne.”

“You two have been over this once an hour, every hour since she arrived. Call her Sansa, Brienne, and she’ll call you Brienne!” Podrick cried and Sansa released an involuntary chuckle and raised her eyes at Brienne who gave a small sharp nod.

Sansa adored this woman, the strength, the might, the independence of her. It reminded her, only a small amount, of Cersei. Cersei was a stone-cold bitch, but no one could say she wasn’t resilient.

“Sansa,” Podrick began. “I was wondering if I could invite you into town with me this afternoon. Brienne won’t be able to make it and I need some help carrying supplies back here.”

Brienne shot Podrick and alarmed look as Sansa replied, “Of course, I’d love to. When are we to leave?” she asked between sips of her lunch.

“After lunch?” he asked and Sansa nodded, hurrying to finish her soup. She longed to see the town.

They arrived home hours later in a flurry of huffs and flushes, Sansa practically dropped the bags on the threshold and Brienne dove to help her. “My la- “ she was cut off mid-sentence and corrected herself as she hauled the bag that had seemed to heavy to Sansa, over her shoulder with ease “Sansa, there’s a visitor for you.”

She tugged the fingers of her gloves off one by one and removed her hat, “There is? Jon?” she asks, walking through the hallway and towards the waiting room.

“No, a man and a very fine lady.” She accentuated the words ‘very fine’ with a slightly incredulous look. Sansa knew it made Brienne uncomfortable enough to have Sansa, a trueborn lady, in the house, let alone another woman of higher, potentially southern birth.

Sansa knew, as soon as she spotted the flash of golden hair, that it was Myrcella and Robb here to see her. Sansa paused at the threshold to the waiting room, where they sat knee to knee whispering.

Myrcella’s head whipped round when she heard Sansa make a small noise in the back of her throat. “Sansa!” she breathed, rushing and clutching her old friend tighter than Sansa suspected was safe.

“Ella.” She said with a wide grin, tugging the ends of the blonde’s hair. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“And I you.” She says with a sweet smile, pulling away to look at Sansa, windswept and smiling. “I brought a certain troublesome fiancé with me, I hope you don’t mind.”

Sansa’s face dropped and she hummed, “No, not at all.” Skirting around the sofa to take a seat opposite of Robb and Myrcella. They looked idyllic together, they truly did.

“Sansa, I need to apologise.” Robb started, sounding rehearsed and honestly wooden. Sansa mentally deflated, any hope of a genuine emotion from Robb cleared her mind. It was almost worse that he was doing this with Myrcella by his side, because Sansa knew the girl would affect his propriety and disposition.

“For what?” Sansa asked, she really should’ve asked for which thing, but felt like that may have sounded too blunt and viscious.

“For everything, I shouldn’t have believed father when he said you hadn’t cared to come home, I know you well enough that I shouldn’t have taken that as an answer.” He blurts out, clearly frustrated with himself. Myrcella places a perfectly manicured hand on his knee in an attempt to settle him.

“It’s okay, Robb.” Myrcella whispers to him as he flushes in anger. The move annoys Sansa, because its possessive and Robb is trying to mend a bridge with his sister and he doesn’t need Myrcella running interference.

“I understand, thank you for your apology.” Sansa nods and both Myrcella and Robb look at her in surprise as she stands.

“Sansa, what are you...” Robb asks in confusion.

“Was that not what you came to apologise for?” She asks, knowing full well what his problem was. He nods, so she continues, “And you’ve apologised, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“No, I came here to reconcile our differences.” He says, frowning.

“If you believe that the only apology you owe me is for believing father’s lies then you are sorely mistaken, and not at all as smart as you often seem to think that you are.” She snaps, and Myrcella’s gaze settles on her, just as surprised and confused as her fiance’s.

She’s never seen Sansa like this. No one has ever seen Sansa like this. The last couple of days have been rife with introspection and conversations with Podrick were always more illuminating than Sansa expected them to be. She’d learnt something, some steel from Brienne and some understanding from Podrick, and she was demonstrating it.

Robb grits his teeth, and stiffens, still standing. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Sansa.”

“If Bran hadn’t died, if he was never sick and I was still living in Dorne and you were here. Would there be another apology, something else you wanted to say?” She presses, looking at him, searching for the brother she used to trail around the garden, the one who’d press kisses to her plaits and bring her flowers when she fell over.

His eyes narrow, “Is this about mum’s death?” Sansa nods and Robb shakes his head, “I’m not apologising for how I acted, Sansa. My mother had just died, we were all grieving and I acted towards you admittedly harshly, but no worse than any other 18 year old would have in the same position.”

“Robb, I was alone.” Sansa said, more softly, daring to take a step towards him. “Do you understand that? I was completely alone. I didn’t have you and Arya and Father, I didn’t have friends, I didn’t have an aunt or an uncle or anyone in the world who understood a modicum of my position. You had an entire support system in place and you didn’t let me have any of it.”

“I pushed you away I admit, but you cannot hold me to account for things I did when I was 18 and in mourning, it seems irrational and unfair.”

“It isn’t though, when you’re not apologising for them now. I know you, I know that you don’t truly understand why I am reluctant to come home, why I prefer the South.”

Myrcella’s breathing is loud and irregular, Sansa thinks she’s nervous, she thinks perhaps this brings back memories of her arguments with Joff. Not that she’s like Myrcella at all, and Robb is nothing like Joff.

Robb sighs and runs a hand through his hair, “I am trying, Sansa, I am.”

“You’re not. You feel obligated to apologise and ensure I won’t be disruptive tomorrow when I come face to face with Arya. You can rest assured, that I will not be. I will be the perfect sister, cold and aloof, I’ll play the role everyone seems to think that I am and then I’ll leave. I’ll marry Harry and you’ll never have to see me again.”

“Harry? Harry Hardyng?” Myrcella asks, a small curious divet between her brows.

“Yes.” Sansa’s voice is fleeting and abrupt.

“He proposed, congratulations.” She says more meekly.

Sansa nods and turns to Robb, “Are we done here?”

He makes a face, “No, we’re not done here. What happened with Arya was atrocious and she’s suffering for it now, but I cannot make right what you are asking me to make right. All I can do is offer myself to you now with the promise that I’ll be a better brother to you.”

Sansa softens and shakes her head, “You cannot be a better brother to me if you haven’t been a brother at all since we were infants. I’ll live in the Vale soon, you’ll be here and I won’t come to visit, I can hardly look at Father or Arya without wanting to tear their eyes out – it might make family dinners hard.”

“You do this, and you’re the one abandoning us this time. You’ll be isolating yourself and it’ll be your own fault when you’re all alone, sad and miserable with Harry Hardyng and his Vale fortune. You’ll have his children? You’d sully the Stark name so?” He spits at her.

“Harry has done nothing to deserve this harsh condemnation. I will marry him and rest assured I will have his children. And gods above Robb I will love them with everything I possibly can, because I know what it is like to grow in a household without love and I’ll never allow it to happen again.” she cried in exasperation. She was sick and tired of everyone questioning her choices.

“What are you doing here, Robb?” Jon’s voice comes from the doorway and Sansa spins in surprise.

“I came to see Sansa.” He says with a smaller voice. “I came to apologise.”

“Making a bit of a mess of it aren’t you.” Jon says with a toneless laugh that makes Myrcella wince. Jon comes to her side, still speaking to Robb, “I told you not to come, Robb. She deserves her privacy.”

“I wanted to, I’m sorry.” Myrcella apologises from under Robb’s arm and Sansa gives her a small, grim smile and nods.

“It’s time to go.” Robb snaps, his eyes not leaving Jon’s. “Has she told you, Jon? Has she told you that she’s leaving us all to go South again?You’re looking after her, but she’ll leave you too.” He snaps and practically disappears from the room, Myrcella rushing after him in a flurry of pink silk.

There’s silence in the way broken by Sansa, “Jon, I appreciate everything you’re doing for me, but I can’t stay.” she says turning to him.

He nods, grim faced. “I know.”

“You do?” her eyebrows raise and she takes a step closer to him.

He looks into her eyes, grey on blue, “I’m not staying either.” He says and sighs, taking a seat where Myrcella and Robb had just been.

He continued. “I went to Essos, as you probably heard.” Sansa nods, curious as to where he was leading, “My aunt Dany is living out there trying to run the new branch of Targaeryen Industries. I learned from her, and her team how to co-ordinate the business and am returning to Dragonstone after the funeral to maintain the branch there. Dany, she worries a lot, I think she thinks someone will sneak it out from under her if she leaves it for too long unattended.”

“You went to your Aunt Dany.” She whispered, repeating in shock, taking a seat beside him – where Myrcella had been.

He grasps her shoulder, “It wasn’t for you, Sansa. It was for me. I know you said that was one of the reasons you couldn’t be with me, but I don’t expect anything to change. It’s…I needed to get my life together. I wasn’t proud of who I was last spring when I came to see you. I wouldn’t want anyone to remember me like that…like my father.”

Sansa nods, words suddenly evading her. Jon, her wonderful Jon, being a grown up, her heart felt swollen with pride for him. She smiles, “I’m so happy for you.” She grimaces, “The weather on Dragonstone though.” She mocked a grimace and he chuckled.

“Yes, not the island’s greatest selling point. But I won’t be there forever and they have these wonderful water gardens where everything is so green and luscious. You’d love it I think, you and Harry should visit, just the two of you or with your family together." He pauses, searching for the words."I...I don’t want us to ever be estranged, Sansa.”

“We won’t be.” She swears.“Tell me more about it.” She smiled, tugging his hand into hers. He continued to distract her with tales of Dragonstone with its cold exterior protecting the warmth and light inside against the storm until Brienne brought a pot of Jasmine tea in, and Sansa begged her and Podrick to join them for the afternoon.

The fire burned, and they exchanged good tales and stories, genuine laughs and eventually sleepy sighs. As the evening closed, Podrick sang with Sansa and made Brienne tear up, Jon laughed at her and Brienne shot him the most withering look and invited him to sing along. Jon had never gotten up so abruptly and Sansa teased him with bright eyes.

The evening held a kind of warmth that Sansa hadn’t felt since her mother’s death, a kind of warmth that came with family…that came with love.


	4. Chapter 4

December 15th, Wintertown, The North 

Light flood through the sheer curtains and Sansa blinks. The day hasn’t even begun and she already wants it to be over. She wants the hellish pain in her chest to ease, she wants to jump to six months-time when its nothing more than a dull ache. 

She dresses and goes down for breakfast, the smell of cinnamon oatmeal greeting her. Jon’s sat at the table, dressed with funeral silks and a maudlin face. “Sansa.” He breathes. 

“Morning.” Her voice is soft, but still croaky from sleep. 

Podrick turns and flashes her a grim smile from his position by the stove. “Breakfast will be just a minute.” He offers and she nods. 

Sansa takes the seat next to Jon and curls into his side, head resting on his soft shoulder. He smells of another time, somewhere glorious. His arm wraps around her shoulders and her body becomes encompassed by his…protected. 

“What time do we need to be there?” she asks, not looking up from the divets in the worn wooden table. 

His fingers stroke her shoulder softly, methodically, reassuringly as he responds, “We’ll leave after breakfast.” She nods and closes her eyes, wishing for a second away from it all. 

They eat breakfast in a warm, soft sort of silence. The cacophony of four spoons scraping bowls, the birds outside and the people on the street is comforting to Sansa. 

She imagines just for a second, that she isn’t a Stark. That she’s the daughter of a blacksmith, a merchant or a tailor, and that she’s an only child, living in a house just like this. She’d marry the village lawyer or sailor, and they’d travel and see the world, living simply and happily.

The vision didn’t last long, because Jon softly said her name and guilt set in her stomach for even wishing for a life without him in it. She felt swollen on affection and gratitude for his quiet endurance of her tears and pain. 

Bran was buried, closed casket, beneath the Weirwood tree, beside Catelyn Stark. It was a huge ceremony, with people from all over the North paying their respects to the second Stark son. And it was beautiful…a beautiful way to say goodbye. 

Sansa stood back, declining Jon’s offer to come with him and spread dirt on Bran’s coffin and she watched people take turns in paying their respect. 

“He always had an affinity with the tree.” Arya spoke from the silence. Sansa spun and saw her younger sister leaning against another tree, dressed in black. She didn’t reply and Arya stepped towards her.

Sansa turned back towards the funeral, as Arya approached behind her. She didn’t want to look at the face which was so often cruel and twisted, not today, not ever. 

“Even Benjen came for it.” Arya kept talking, but her words fell into the void between them as she was met with silence from Sansa. “He’ll be happy to see you.” 

She was at Sansa’s side now, just in her peripheral vision, but she didn’t turn to look, didn’t dare. 

Sansa continued to watch the scene ahead as Jon’s turn came to sprinkle the dirt and wish his surrogate brother a farewell. 

“I shouldn’t have hit you.” Arya attempted, and Sansa could almost hear the desperation in her voice. “Sansa…Sansa, look at me.” 

Sansa refused to, her face icy and splendidly blank. Arya thought her elder sister looked like the Weirwood tree their brother had just been buried under. 

“You can’t hate me forever, we’re family.” Arya breathed dejectedly after Sansa’s prolonged stoic silence. “The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.” 

Sansa finally reacts by shooting her sister a withering look and walks away. She knew that more than anything, what irritated Arya the most was when she felt like her words weren’t even deigned a response. 

Arya shouted after her, “You’ll die a lone wolf if you leave us!” But what Arya didn’t realise, is that she’d never been a wolf, had never been one of the pack. 

But Sansa walked away. Nothing, she thought, really needed to be said. Arya knew she was wrong. Sansa had no interest in her apologies, or anyone’s for that matter. 

She walked and walked until her feet hit the rocks by one of the freshwater springs. She sat and looked at her reflection, attempting to feel Bran in the breeze. 

Jon found her there, by the pool, hours later. “Let’s go home.” 

Sansa wondered, silently, why his face had flashed through her mind at the word ‘home’. 

December 16th, Wintertown, The North. 

Sansa embraced Brienne tightly, pressing her lips against the woman’s shoulder. “This shan’t be the last time I see you,” she swore, then pulled away and addressed Podrick as well, “both of you.”  
Podrick nodded in time with Brienne, his eyes were filled with emotion and Sansa thought that she’d seen Brienne’s lower lip wobble. 

They were stood on the porch of the little house that had served her with so much comfort over the recent weeks, her haven amidst a storm. 

“I,” Sansa paused, unsure of if anymore needed to be said, but then she spotted Jon, her wonderful Jon waiting for her by the carriage and a surge of gratitude overwhelmed her, “I am so grateful and indebted to you two, you have taught me more than you could ever know.” 

She clasps Brienne’s hands between hers and the magnificent woman nodded. Sansa pulled away, offering them one last wide smile before following Jon into the carriage. She doesn’t look back for fear of sobbing. 

“Sansa!” Brienne calls, jogging quickly towards her. “Sansa,” she lowers her voice again as they stand toe to toe on the pavement, “Don’t lose sight of what you want. Not what you think you want, but what you truly want – what your heart wants. I loved a man once, a knight, an honourable man, but I didn’t fight for him because I didn’t understand that he was all I needed to endure the rise and fall of life – don’t make the same mistake.” 

“You’re talking of Jon?” Sansa asks and Brienne grasps her slim hands in her large ones. 

“I am talking of everything, everyone, don’t let regret and fear hold you back from living your life to the fullest. Soon you’ll be gone, and all this will fade into nothing, so enjoy it whilst you have it.” 

Brienne then presses her forehead against Sansa’s and Sansa pushes away the urge to cry. Brienne’s words sound like a goodbye, and she can’t stomach that reality. Brienne softly pushes her away and Sansa looks back and offers her two saviours: Podrick and Brienne, a smile. 

They bundle in, and Jon takes the seat next to her rather than opposite her, and holds her tightly with his arm as they trundle along back towards the Vale. 

Sansa allows tears to fall, quietly down her face, tears of silent grief rather than anger and frustration. All the while Jon just holds her and she never wants him to let her go. 

December 20th Somewhere in the Westerlands 

Sansa shoots Jon a small grin, then a wider one, then a giggle. He frowns, “It’s not funny, Sansa.”

“Not funny? Who are you and what have you done with my Jon, that’s one of the funniest things you’ve ever told me!” She cried, hilarity lacing every word. She pressed her hand to her mouth to stifle her laugh, but it had little effect.  
Jon’s lips moved as if her were rubbing something between them, then they twitched and then he released a chuckle. Sansa’s own laughter increased three-fold at the sight of Jon, chuckling, a rarity in itself. 

Her relatively ladylike giggles were broken by a very unladylike snort. Jon’s eyes widened and his chuckle became a laugh as he choked out, “What was that?! I’ve never heard you make that noise before.” 

Sansa cackled and threw her head back, both of them lost in the hilarity of the non-funny. After a moment, Jon let out a deep breath and Sansa looked out of the window so that his face didn’t make her start laughing again. 

“Gods, it’s been a while since I’ve laughed like that.” She admitted, watching as the flora and fauna of the Westerlands trundled by. “I can’t even bring myself to feel guilty for it.” 

Jon frowned, “Why would you feel guilty?” 

“Gods above, I don’t deserve to laugh, to live, after everything I’ve done to my friends, my family…” she trailed off because her next thought was ‘after everything I’m about to do’. 

Because, it had taken her four days in a carriage with the love of her life for her to realise that she wasn’t living for her anymore, but that she needed to be. 

That’s what Brienne had been saying, that’s what her heart and soul was saying. 

Sansa knew what she needed to do now. 

December 23rd, Sunspear, Dorne

The carriage had arrived at its destination. Sansa and Jon were both looking at their feet, neither of them wanting to make a move to leave the confines of the carriage to face reality. 

Sansa’s lower lip wobbled. She knew she’d see him soon, but her heart broke for them, for their trauma. “I am going to miss you so much, Sansa.” His voice was hourse, and it sounded like a confession. 

Sansa’s reply was weak and watery, “I’m going to miss you too.” 

Jon stood, as much as he could inside of the carriage and manoeuvred his way to her side, tugging her into his embrace. He held her for a long time, but it didn’t feel like long enough. She breathed him in, remembered the feeling of him, the muscles beneath his shirt, the scratch of his beard against her cheek, his low voice when he said with such determination, “I love you.” 

Her breath caught and her reply was interrupted by a loud banging on the window. They pulled apart just in time for the door to swing open and for Harry to appear. “Good trip?” he asked and Sansa’s stomach turned. 

She stood up and lowered herself from the car with as much grace and decorum as she could manage, “Your stuff is all unloaded, so say goodbye to Jon Snow.” Harry was not a cruel man, but he knew what he was doing when he enunciated Jon’s surname, the bastard surname like that. 

Sansa turned back as soon as her slippered feet hit the ground. She looked up and smiled at him, Jon hanging from the doorway of the carriage. 

“If you ever find yourself in Essos…” he started. 

“She won’t.” Harry snapped, tugging on Sansa’s arm. The devastation in Jon’s face was clear as his love was pulled away from him by another man. 

He begged the gods to let him see her again, for this not to be the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been forever since I updated - apologies! The ending is a little rushed, I'm sure I'll be editing it over the coming weeks, but I just wanted to get the ending down onto the page.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final Chapter, thank you so so so much for reading! 
> 
> If you hate it - don't tell me, lockdown has done strange things to my sensitivity levels. 
> 
> If you do like it, let me know - you guys have left some of the loveliest comments so thank you so much I really appreciate all of them!

June 6th Pentos, Essos 

It had been a hard day for Jon, the summer sun was sweltering and everyone at work had been challenging each other even more than usual. 

Every business decision anyone so much as mentioned was torn apart immediately, everyone was so desperate to please and impress Dany back in Westeros, that none of them showed any true dedication to the Essos branch. Nothing pissed off Jon more.

He stumbled up the garden path to his house, a golden bricked terraced house that had views of the port and the harbour. Jon adored his home. Not because it reminded it of him, it hadn’t at all when he’d seen it – it was so gorgeous and southern. No, he loved it because it reminded him of Sansa. 

As teenagers in love, they sometimes talked about different lives they could live together. They’d lie on their backs in the grass, under the Northern Sun, and toy with ideas. Sansa’s suggestions always included children, and Jon’s always just included her.

Sometimes they’d be somewhere cold, like beyond the wall, or in a small stronghold in the North where they didn’t have any huge duties beyond caring for the lard, and sometimes they were in the heat, like Dorne or Essos. Sansa had liked those the best, she’d wanted a lemon tree that grew naturally, one that she could made lemon cakes and lemonade from every single day. Jon’s rooftop garden now had a small lemon tree. She’d wanted sunny views, and children, and lemons. 

Jon could give it all to her now and it broke his heart that he hadn’t. 

He unlocked the front door, thinking about Sansa, immediately thinking about how she wouldn’t have burnt the bread he’d attempted to make yesterday. Podrick had sent him a recipe in his recent letter, and Jon had been foolish enough to try it. He’d stopped just short of burning the hosue down. 

The house was cool and breezy by comparison and he released a sigh of relief as he thre his keys onto the table, and dropped his bag by the door. 

“How was your day?” A voice called out from the garden patio that backed onto the kitchen. 

Jon’s heart froze. He was hearing things. He missed Sansa so much that he was actually hearing things. “Jon?” she called. His legs involuntarily spurred him forwards through the foyer, the living room and the kitchen to the balcony garden. 

There she was. Encased in sunlight, sat in one of his metal chairs, was Sansa. “Hello Jon,” she smiled up at him, slowly standing and allowing her white linen dress to fall gracefully around her. 

Jon didn’t speak, but moved, wrapping her up into his arms in less than a heartbeat. She giggled as he held her head against his and clutched her as if he were a dying man and she was his last breath. 

His chest was tight with emotion and his throat bobbed. Sansa pulled back her head, but remained in his embrace, “Are you alright?” 

“Are you?!” he asked in disbelief, and then chuckled, “What on gods earth are you doing here?” 

Sansa grinned, “Your housekeeper let me in, I sat on the steps outside the house for hours, then she came by and let me wait here, you don’t mind do you?” 

Jon spluttered, completely at a loss of what to say, “But why are you here?” 

Sansa pressed her hands against his lapel, just as she had all those months ago in the garden in Dorne. “I left Harry, I left him for good, because I love you, I want to be here with you and I never want to be parted from you ever again.”

Jon’s eyes filled with tears. He was not an emotional man, he never had been. But this woman: this wonderful brave intelligent woman, wanted him. 

Sansa pressed a kiss to his cheek and pulled him back into her arms. “I think I’m dreaming.” He whispered and she laughed. 

“I made us bread and lemonade. Your attempts at both were atrocious.” She giggled and Jon let out a rough chuckle. 

“But it’s fine now, I have you.” He said and leaned in pressing a chaste kiss against her smiling lips. He pulled back, glanced over her face once more and then passionately swept her into his arms, kissing her like the goddess she was. They broke apart and Jon nuzzled her neck, leading her to squeal and squirm in his arms. 

Behind them the sea sparkled and the sun began to set upon this little drop of the North that they’d cultivated so far from home. 

The After. 

Sansa and Jon ended up having more than enough kids, lemonade and bread to last them a lifetime. 

Though they didn’t live in the townhouse in Pentos forever, it was where each of their children had been born: two boys with red curls and blue eyes, and two girls with straight red hair and brown eyes. Jon somehow managed to look like all of them despite not giving them his hair, but they’d tease him about being the odd one out, “Daddy’s the only boring one!”. 

When Ned got sick, five years ago, they started making trips back North more regularly. Sansa and Jon, had quickly patched up their relationship with him when they saw the pain it had caused him to be parted from his grandchildren, and the guilt he truly felt for the reason behind it. 

Myrcella and Robb were there the whole time, with two golden, curly haired children of their own. Their children had been as close as siblings since they’d met, and there wasn’t ever a moment where Robb, Myrcella, Sansa and Jon held resentment for one another. 

Though Sansa and Robb would never repair what they’d had as children, they were bonded, as family and as parents. 

Arya and Sansa’s relationship took far longer to patch up. It took the birth of Arya’s first and only daughter, just a year ago, for them to truly forgive. Sansa visited her and Gendry in the Stormlands and cried when Arya named her daughter Catelyn. 

Sansa had never even tried to call one of her children Catelyn, for Jon’s sake. But Arya, Arya had sobbed when she’d seen Sansa after the birth, “I never understood, but now I do.” And named her child Catelyn, for Sansa more than anyone else. 

Still to this day, what she meant remained a bit of a mystery, but Sansa and her had never been so close. Different, but close. 

Ned passed away seven years after Sansa joined Jon in Pentos, two years after they’d returned North permanently. Rickon, returned from his adventuring for the funeral, and finally the Starks were one in all their glory. 

Sansa never forgot Brienne words from the day she’d wished her goodbye. As one of her children’s godparents she’d been given the chance to impart far more wisdom over the years. Wisdom that had doubled once she’d reconciled with her lost love, Jaime. However, it was that phrase - Soon you’ll be gone, and all this will fade into nothing, so enjoy it whilst you can. That never failed, and guided her and her family into the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm anticipating comments about the fact I've skipped the dumping scene between Harry and Sansa. In Little Women (2019) we don't see the scene, and I actually find it incredibly effective because it is Amy's story, not Fred's, so we don't need to see her end things with him, we just need to know that she has. I was going for the same thing here - sorry if people were looking forward to it!

**Author's Note:**

> Any and all due credits for the characters and some of the lines go to Louisa May Alcott, George.R.R.Martin and Greta Gerwig.


End file.
